


stay for as long as you have time

by kagome_angel



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Sappy, Snarky Misaki, Snarky Saruhiko, They're Both Snarky Assholes Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagome_angel/pseuds/kagome_angel
Summary: But it’s Saruhiko, after all, and he sees everything and misses nothing except for some things that are right there staring him in his stupid beautiful face, but they’ve already established that and Misaki is okay with it.





	stay for as long as you have time

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Panic! At the Disco’s “Casual Affair.” I couldn’t not write a sequel to “come over, i need you.” (Found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10436760) I hope all my fellow SaruMi lovers enjoy. :)

They wind up at Fushimi’s mostly because there’s no real privacy at HOMRA and partly because Yata hadn’t wanted to hear any more of Kusanagi’s maybe-maybe-not-idle threats. He knows perfectly well that he’ll catch hell for all of this whenever he decides to show his face to the rest of his clan again, but at the moment, with his back against Fushimi’s front door and Fushimi’s mouth moving heatedly and insistently against his own, well, it’s safe to say that his family’s nagging and teasing aren’t exactly at the top of his list of concerns at this point in time.

He’s pretty sure Fushimi would have an easier time getting the door open if they’d pause their current activities long enough for the key to turn the lock, but Yata isn’t particularly concerned with _that_ either, not right this second, not with Fushimi’s body pressed against his; it’s something, knowing that he’s got this genius of a man so utterly distracted that he can’t even get the stupid key in the door, but… it isn’t like he can actually properly gloat about it, because Yata’s terribly distracted, himself.

Distantly, some part of him notes that it’s started to rain. It’s a chilly evening and the dampness will make it even colder, but Yata isn’t cold in the slightest; if anything, he feels as if his body is overheating; he feels like he’s wearing a goddamn winter coat despite the fact that in all actuality, he’s in short sleeves and a jacket. Saruhiko makes him feel heat in ways that his aura doesn’t, can’t. 

His fingers get caught in Fushimi’s hair and they tug sharply; it’s an accident, mostly, but the sound that Fushimi makes when he does so leads him to do it again, purposefully, and then Yata’s making a sound of his own—a low groan, which is lost somewhere amidst the tantalizing movements of lips and tongues.

He recognizes the tell-tale click of the lock sliding out of place and he’s (at least somewhat) prepared for the sudden inward swing of the door as it opens, but he’s momentarily caught off-balance all the same, though not for long, just long enough for a sharp inhale, and then Fushimi has both hands on him again, helping to steady him. He’s embarrassed a little, but he covers it up by all but dragging Fushimi inside and promptly shutting the door, and this time, Fushimi’s the one that’s pinned against it. Yata quite enjoys the little sound of surprise that Saruhiko makes, and decides to test the waters further still, trailing kisses from Fushimi’s jaw to his neck, lapping at the droplets of rain that cling to warm _hot_ skin.

Fushimi shivers against him, tilting his head to the side, giving Yata access to more skin, and even though both of them know just how idiotic he can be (yes, he can admit it), he is well aware of how stupid it would be to ignore such an invitation, and so Yata takes it a step further, sinking teeth into flesh—not quite hard enough to mark, and the sound that Saruhiko makes when Yata does this isn’t one of pain.

Fingers tangle in his now-damp hair and pull, and the answering hiss that Yata gives isn’t one of pain, either. He follows the motion, letting Fushimi drag him back to his mouth, and he grasps at the front of Fushimi’s shirt, tugging with aching fingers as their lips meet once again.

Fushimi doesn’t quite give him what he wants, opting instead to keep kissing him, and Yata makes a soft, brief sound of annoyance into the kiss, deciding to slip his hands under Fushimi’s shirt so that he can touch bare skin. The reaction he receives in turn is another delicious little shiver, and feeling Saruhiko respond to him like this is certainly a turn-on, not that he wasn’t already aroused before, but Fushimi’s sounds and movements let him know that _he_ is desired too, and that does a hell of a lot for the heat that’s coiling tight in his lower belly.

He pulls back from the kiss but keeps himself pressed against Fushimi as he hastily kicks off his sneakers without even bothering to untie them. Fushimi’s are a little bit more complicated—they’re boots that require some unzipping, but Yata kneels and hastily removes them all the same, pausing while he’s down there to gaze up at Fushimi, who’s watching him through lowered lashes. 

Yata rises slowly, deliberately brushing his fingers against Saruhiko’s clothed erection (this earns him a soft moan) before he’s standing at his full height once more and leaning in again, pressing his lips against Fushimi’s while he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. 

“Slob,” Fushimi quips, and Yata isn’t surprised at all by the undercurrent of slight displeasure in Fushimi’s voice—he hadn’t dropped his jacket on the floor with the intention of provoking Saruhiko; the obvious irritation that he’s currently displaying is merely a bonus.

“Perfectionist,” Yata retorts and then both of them break out in matching grins; Misaki’s widens further when Fushimi removes his own jacket and lets it hit the floor as well.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Fushimi says, and Yata thinks that’s a brilliant idea (maybe Saruhiko _is_ a genius after all).

“We should,” Yata agrees, “but maybe we shouldn’t get rid of everything here at the front door.” Actually, now that he thinks about it, it doesn’t really fucking matter, they could take this to the kitchen for all he cares, as long as they both wind up naked and breathless by the end of it.

“Come on then,” Fushimi tells him, moving past him but grabbing his hand along the way, leading him past the living room and down the hallway, into the bedroom. He’s never paid much attention to Fushimi’s home, and right now he’s far too distracted with Saruhiko himself to focus on much of anything else (this always seems to be the case, honestly, no matter what they’re doing), but he’s gathered from his cursory glances that the place is pretty decent; it’s clean and tidy and everything has its own proper place—it’s very, very much _Saruhiko_ , and Yata figures that that’s why he’s always felt comfortable here, and there definitely is security in familiarity. 

As soon as they’ve made it past the bedroom doorway, Fushimi’s hands are on his torso, grasping his shirt. Yata lifts his arms and the shirt slides easily over his upper body. Fushimi tosses it aside and walks Yata backwards, until Yata feels the backs of his legs hit the bedframe. Fushimi nudges him and he sits down, dragging the other man with him, fingers clutching at the front of Fushimi’s button-up shirt.

Yata begins undoing the buttons, starting from the bottom and working his way up. He makes sure to brush some part of his hands against every newly-revealed patch of skin, and once he’s finished with the last button, Saruhiko shrugs it off the rest of the way and it is discarded in much the same manner that Yata’s was (and, truth be told, he’s a bit surprised that Fushimi didn’t neatly fold the shirt before setting it aside).

His eyes drink in the sight of Saruhiko’s now-bare upper body, and he doesn’t question the fact that he needs to touch somewhere, anywhere, any place that Fushimi will let him—

On impulse, Yata brushes his fingers over the marred symbol beneath Fushimi’s left clavicle, and then leans in and presses his lips to it; it’s a tender, affectionate gesture, one which Fushimi clearly was not prepared to receive, as is evidenced by sudden gasp that reaches Yata’s ears—it’s loud in the quiet of the room, louder than even the pounding of Yata’s own heart.

He draws back and meets Fushimi’s gaze, and those eyes of his, which are typically calm and analytical, never giving a damn thing away, are completely different from his normal. Right now, those eyes are solemn and filled with something suspiciously akin to regret, and Yata doesn’t like that, not one bit.

He grabs Saruhiko by the shoulders, digs his fingers in to prove a point, and then relaxes his grip a margin only when the other man winces just slightly. “Don’t you dare look at me like that, Saru,” he hisses, almost snarls. “Don’t you dare feel sorry _now_ , don’t you _dare_ try to apologize for _who you are_ , because I’m sure as hell not. We are here together _now_ , and I’m not going to fucking waste my time regretting the path that brought us here, and you shouldn’t, either! If you haven’t figured out by now that I am _exactly_ where I want to be, then you really are an idiot and that Blue King of yours is giving you far more credit than you deserve!”

For just an instant, Fushimi’s eyes widen the slightest margin, and he regards Yata with what just might be astonished silence. Then he _chuckles_ , and Yata doesn’t know whether he should feel insulted or relieved, but he settles on the latter when Fushimi smirks and says, “I get it, Misaki.”

Yata quirks an eyebrow and inches closer to Fushimi, their lips almost touching, but not quite. He purposefully pauses just before contact, leaving the remainder of the distance to be crossed by Fushimi himself, if that’s what he wants. “Then prove it to me,” he challenges, _insists_. “Prove it to me in a way you know I’ll understand.”

Hesitation clearly no longer fits anywhere into Fushimi’s vocabulary, in this space between them, which no longer exists when Fushimi answers the challenge by all but crushing his lips against Misaki’s. He kisses with a near-bruising force, but Yata doesn’t back down. He gives just as good as he gets, and when they finally break apart, both of them are breathing a little heavier, and the curving, coiling, redhot _need_ in Yata’s belly is screaming at him, refusing to be ignored.

And maybe Fushimi understands without Yata having to say anything, or maybe there’s a monster clawing at Fushimi’s insides as well, demanding attention. Either way, Fushimi’s suddenly pushing him down and Yata goes willingly, readily, sprawling back against the mattress as Fushimi hovers over him, glasses askew and lips kiss-swollen, and it takes Yata’s breath, how utterly and undeniably _sexy_ Saruhiko is like this.

He hooks a leg around Fushimi’s waist as Fushimi leans down for another kiss. Yata arches up into it, groaning into the kiss when Saruhiko rolls his hips just _so_ and Yata’s leg around him tightens reflexively, holding him there. Sure, he could break free if he wanted to, Yata doesn’t doubt that. However, Fushimi doesn’t seem to mind being ‘trapped’ so much; it’s mouth against mouth, hips against hips, it’s friction and heat and give and take and demand and plea; it’s delicious, but it isn’t enough.

“Saru,” Yata gasps and Fushimi shushes him with an ‘I’ve got you,’ nimble fingers unbuttoning and unzipping Yata’s jeans, and then they’re having to separate so that Fushimi can pull jeans and briefs together down and off Misaki’s legs. His erection is now freed from its confines and jutting out from his hips, aching for anything and everything that Saruhiko might have in mind; he’s naked for the first time in front of the only person he’s ever wanted and imagined being with, in this way, and he feels just a tinge of anxiety skitter down his spine at the newness and rawness of it all; here he is, vulnerable and open and needing, and there’s no backing down now—not that he wants to. He hates, though, that in this moment of motionlessness, he’s letting his nerves get the better of him.

Yata realizes he’s staring at some invisible point above Fushimi’s left shoulder and he forces his gaze to travel upwards to the other’s face, settling there instead. He’s almost startled by the look he finds there; Saruhiko’s staring openly at him, and while the scrutiny should probably make him feel more anxious, it’s the _want_ in those eyes that does quite the opposite to him. Heat shoots down his spine, chasing away the nervousness, making him bold.

“Saru,” he practically purrs, his voice (all guttural and low) sounding strange to his own ears, “why don’t you come feel what you’re staring at?”

Fushimi closes his eyes and he sighs, momentarily swaying on his feet, and it makes Yata _throb_ , knowing that he can affect him this way. 

Saruhiko’s hands are moving now, he’s reaching for the front of his own pants and he makes quick work of the button and the zipper. Yata’s a bit perturbed; he’d wanted to do that part himself, but then Fushimi’s shoving his pants and underwear down and kicking them off, and it’s Yata’s turn to stare. He’d imagined this on several occasions, but he’s immediately realized that his fantasies haven’t done reality justice. Any lingering anxiety over his own nudity is quickly consumed, burned away by the need to touch the man in front of him. He is perfectly distracted, and breath and words have stalled in his throat, his hands moving of their own accord, reaching for the now-beautifully-naked man standing before him.

“Breathe, Misaki,” Fushimi reminds him as he rejoins him on the bed, and Yata drags in lungfulls of air only to have his breath stolen from him again when Fushimi kisses him again. Yata thinks he ought to want to punch Saruhiko for being a jackass like this, but Fushimi’s smiling into the kiss and Yata can’t help but grin, too.

“Bastard,” Yata gripes, but he doesn’t mean it and he knows Fushimi knows he doesn’t mean it. “Telling me to breathe and then doing that.”

“Is that a complaint?” Saruhiko asks, and the next thing Misaki’s aware of are those clever fingers curling around his erection and giving it a slow, toe-curling tug. 

“N-no,” Yata responds, cursing at himself for not being able to keep his voice steady, but hell, it’s all he can do to keep his hips fucking still right now—it takes willpower that he barely even possesses, especially when Fushimi’s involved. Having someone – not just any someone, but _Saru_ – do this to him feels exponentially better than when he does it himself, and maybe he hadn’t quite been prepared for it, but he should have known this, right?

“You told me to feel, didn’t you?” Saruhiko asks, giving him another tug, firmer this time, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head, and this time Misaki’s curse comes tumbling from his lips instead of reverberating inside of his own head.

Fushimi chuckles, but it isn’t a chiding or mocking sort of laugh; it’s low and it’s sexy and it’s satisfied and it makes Yata _throb_ , which Fushimi, of course, doesn’t miss. In fact, Fushimi begins a slow rhythm, stroking and squeezing in all the right places, and when he picks up the pace, Misaki can’t keep his hips still any longer. He arches into it, into Saruhiko, into the hand that’s sending all these incredible sensations through him. He closes his eyes and he lets himself feel, lets himself feel how his body reacts of its own accord to Fushimi’s touch, and he doesn’t try to stop it. His body feels like it’s boiling and there’s some small part of his brain attempting to protest, yelling at him that if he lets himself go like this it’s going to be over embarrassingly soon, and—

Misaki’s eyes snap open and he shakes his head. “Saru, if you keep this up, I’m gonna--” 

“We have all night, Misaki,” Fushimi smoothly interjects, and he doesn’t let up in the slightest. Instead, he quickens the pace and Yata can barely hear Fushimi’s next words over his own keening moan, but he _does_ hear them, and they make him shudder: “I want to watch you. Let me.”

After hearing _that_ , Yata isn’t able to talk himself down from it; he isn’t able to think about incredibly unsexy things and hold his impending orgasm at bay; it simply isn’t possible (he wants to be pissed at Saruhiko but given how damn good the other man is making him feel, that’s impossible too), and so he tenses and he groans helplessly, jolting and jerking and coming; Saruhiko keeps stroking him even after he’s finished, and it’s an overload of sensation, the overstimulation making him whimper and writhe against Fushimi.

Fushimi’s motions still shortly thereafter and his voice is rough as he intones, “I wouldn’t mind seeing and feeling that a few more times.”

Misaki opens his eyes (he doesn’t remember closing them) and he feels himself flush at the words, which is pretty stupid, all things considered. Saruhiko’s just effectively made a mess of him and watched him orgasm, for fuck’s sake, and here he is, blushing like a schoolgirl at mere words alone.

“Give me a minute, and I might indulge you,” Misaki replies, biting at his bottom lip when he allows his gaze to drift further down and he notices that Fushimi is still _very_ much erect, and as of now, has been relatively untouched… at least, when it’s taken into account what Fushimi has just done to _him_. 

He realizes that he wants to – needs to – make Saruhiko feel what he’s just felt, wants to give him that, wants to reciprocate fully and then some. Thinking about it sends another wave of heat through him, makes his spent cock give a little twitch.

But Fushimi’s pulling away, sliding off of the bed, and Yata hears himself make a little unconscious noise of protest. Fushimi smirks at the sound (of course he does, the smug bastard, just _look_ at him, looking all pleased with himself) and then his smile changes, becomes one that’s more about reassurance than anything else. “I’m going to be right back, okay?”

He disappears into the adjoining bathroom, but, true to his word, he’s back within moments, tissues and a tube of… something (Yata can guess; he’s not an idiot) in his hands. He rejoins Yata on the bed, gently cleaning him up with the tissues, and Yata feels another surge of affection at the _caring_ behind the gesture, even though the act in and of itself is maybe just a tad embarrassing. However, that isn’t what Misaki wants or chooses to focus on.

“I want to touch you, too,” Misaki tells him, and Saruhiko’s lashes go half-mast and he crooks a slender finger, setting the tube aside and leaning back a little, waiting for Yata to come to him.

(And yeah, that little tube is definitely what Yata figured it was, and the fact that Saruhiko obviously intends to use it sends another minute flash of anxiety through him—it isn’t as if he doesn’t know how this works, it’s just that he doesn’t quite know what to expect even though he knows they’ll be fine, more than fine, no matter what.)

He forces the rambling of his mind to halt; he doesn’t want to think right now, not really. What he _does_ want is to feel, and to make Saruhiko feel everything that he’s just felt, everything he’s currently feeling. Yata crosses the short space between them on hands and knees, fitting himself easily between Fushimi’s spread thighs. He wants to touch him, more than anything, and so he does: he wraps his fingers around Fushimi’s length and he gives a firm upward stroke, his breath leaving him in a soft moan as he feels Saruhiko’s dick throb, as he watches Saruhiko bite his lip and as he hears Saruhiko whimper.

Yata’s own cock becomes fully hard again at the combination of the feel, the sound, and the sight of Fushimi like this, unguarded and at his mercy (although, to be honest, Yata isn’t stupid enough to really think that he’s got the upper hand here, no matter what; his legs are jelly and his mind’s a jumbled mess; he’s losing track of everything that isn’t Fushimi, but he’s more than okay with that). He slowly drags his thumb over the head of Saruhiko’s erection, smearing pre-cum, and the next sound that Saruhiko makes (a guttural moan) causes him to growl, makes his fingers compulsively tighten their grip. He begins moving his hand up and down, and the rhythm is slow and it’s so strange, how he’s done this to himself (while thinking about Fushimi) countless times, and he’s imagined doing this to Fushimi too, and he’s always known that touching him like this would feel amazing, but he’d never imagined that giving Saruhiko pleasure would do so much for Yata, himself. 

He rests his forehead against Fushimi’s and he gradually quickens his pace; his breathing is erratic and the blood running through his veins and arteries feels scorching hot; his dick is screaming for contact but he ignores that for now, focusing fully on Saruhiko, on the way his breath is coming short, and on the way his hips are starting to rise to meet Yata’s motions.

“Breathe Saru,” Misaki murmurs against parted lips, and isn’t it funny and incredibly arousing, how their situations are now reversed and yet they _aren’t_. Saruhiko nips sharply at his bottom lip as if in admonishment and Yata gasps, and then Saruhiko’s sucking on that same spot, clever tongue soothing flesh, a silent, almost-but-not-quite apology. Yata takes it readily, parts his lips further for that questing tongue, greedily swallows Fushimi’s groan as Yata’s fingers squeeze again, the pace of his hand becoming faster still, and—

“Stop,” Fushimi commands, slipping a hand between them and wrapping his fingers around Misaki’s wrist, stilling his movements, and something like panic jolts through Yata, concern and confusion twisting his stomach into knots.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and fuck, if he doesn’t sound like a scared, disappointed child. “Did I--?” 

No doubt understanding where Yata’s train of thought has headed, Fushimi squeezes Yata’s wrist gently, reassuringly, and shakes his head. He takes a deep, slow breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, as if steadying himself. “It’s not like that, Misaki. I just need you to stop, before I lose it.”

Yata immediately feels tense muscles relax; his stomach stops doing loop-de-loops and he releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Then, he raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that kind of the point?” he asks. “You’re the one that said we have all night, right? So what’s wrong with me doing for you what you did for me?”

Saruhiko pushes his glasses up further along the bridge of his nose and he heaves a little sigh, as if frustrated that he’s having to explain (well, excuse Misaki for not having ESP). “There’s nothing _wrong_ with it in any sense, Misaki.” His gaze slides down and to the side, and Yata follows it, once again taking in the sight of the tube of lubricant.

“But?” Yata prompts, needing and wanting to hear what Fushimi has in mind.

“I don’t want to come tonight until I’m inside you,” Fushimi says, and oh, _fuck_ , the words send a jolt of heat straight to Misaki’s groin and he feels his mouth go dry all of a sudden; it doesn’t matter that he’s never done it before, it doesn’t matter that he’s got a pretty good idea that at least some discomfort is to be expected, none of the not-knowing matters because Yata _wants_ it, wants exactly what Fushimi wants to give him, and wants Fushimi to _take_.

His hands are trembling thanks to his nerves and the force of his need as he cups Saruhiko’s face, but his voice is strong as he replies, “You should probably get to that, then.”

“Is that an invitation?” Fushimi asks, and the utterly aroused tone of his voice belies the calm, cocky grin playing on his lips.

“What do you think?” And, so as not to leave room for questions, Yata kisses Fushimi again, and it’s slow and sweet and wanting; he presses in close, feels their lower bodies brush against each other as Fushimi moves so that he’s on his knees now, too, the kiss remaining unbroken, their soft groans lost amongst the push and the press of lips and tongues.

When they finally do break away from each other, Fushimi murmurs, “Lean over, so that you’re on your hands and knees.” They aren’t necessary, Saruhiko’s tender, guiding touches, but they aren’t unappreciated, and Yata lets Fushimi help; lets Fushimi move his limbs where he needs them to be. Yata leans over his bent elbows and he takes a breath, trying not to be self-conscious of the fact that his ass is up in the air and he probably looks ridiculous; he has no idea how he could _possibly_ look anything but, in this position, but then—

Fushimi’s fingers are trailing down his back, following the curve of his spine, and his touch is a pleasant distraction from Yata’s thoughts. He forces his mind to clear, and he lets himself focus on what Saruhiko’s doing; lips follow fingers and Misaki makes a pleased sound low in his throat, pressing back against the touches, the kisses, and Saruhiko rewards the motion with a soft bite to his lower back; it’s simultaneously startling and sensual—it raises goosebumps along Yata’s flesh and it leads him to moan softly, his eyes falling shut of their own accord.

They snap open again when he feels Fushimi’s fingers once more, slick now, against the cleft of his ass, gently probing but not yet penetrating, giving him time to get used to the touch, alone. He’s grateful for it because he can’t help but tense even though he doesn’t want or mean to. Yata supposes it’s only natural, though, given the newness of it all, and it’s obvious that Fushimi (the clever, considerate monkey that he is) is taking that into account.

“Misaki,” Fushimi begins, one finger circling, circling, and Yata feels himself relax a little, “you’re absolutely positive about this?”

Yata wants to be frustrated, he really does. He almost is. “What the fuck do you think?” he bites out, glancing back at Fushimi over his shoulder. “I’m still hard as a goddamn rock, Saru. Just because I don’t really know what to expect with this doesn’t mean that I don’t fucking want it, that I don’t want _you_. Are you following me?”

“I’m following you,” Fushimi replies, his free hand moving between Yata’s body and the mattress, fingers closing around and lightly squeezing Misaki’s erection while the finger that had slowly been circling his entrance presses carefully, shallowly inside. 

It’s strange, the intrusion. Not exactly unpleasant, just different. Fushimi’s hand on his dick is a distraction from the unfamiliar sensation, not that Yata’s exactly worried, and his body is still (mostly) relaxed from the orgasm he’d had earlier. It helps, but what helps most of all (even though he won’t let himself admit it out loud) is how cautious Fushimi’s being with him, how mindful he is of Yata’s reactions, how he seems to know what Yata might need before Yata himself even has an inkling.

(But it’s Saruhiko, after all, and he sees everything and misses nothing except for some things that are right there staring him in his stupid fucking beautiful face, but they’ve already established that and Misaki is okay with it.)

That single finger inside of him advances slowly, retreats carefully, and presses forward and in again. Fushimi does this several times, letting Yata adjust, before he adds a second finger. A little bit more of a stretch, but still no pain, and then those fingers spread, scissoring momentarily before moving back a little, curling and pressing, the tips of them touching something that makes his entire body react: Yata jolts and groans, his body moving of its own accord, practically shoving back against whatever _that_ was, demanding more of it.

Saruhiko makes a pleased sound and does it again, pressing and rubbing, and the hand that he has on Yata’s cock gives another firm stroke, and Yata’s in some sort of limbo, torn between moving forward and arching back; he does neither as Fushimi repeats the motions yet again—he stays as static as he can, fingers grasping at the material below him, body trembling from the onslaught; he could come again from this, very easily, pathetically quickly, and he wants to tell Fushimi to slow down or stop or _give me a goddamn minute here, this is too new and too good and too much_ , but then those fingers are moving again, uncurling and pressing in deep, and well that isn’t exactly helpful either. 

Clarification: It _is_ ; it’s serving its purpose, of course, Yata knows this. But the heat pooling in his stomach demands to not be ignored, and the gradual trickle is threatening to turn into a geyser; it’s still strange, having Saruhiko’s fingers inside of him like this, moving and pressing and stretching him, preparing him, it’s _strange_ but undeniably _good_ , and Yata’s suddenly impatient for more; he wants to know how different it will feel to have not fingers but _Saru_ inside of him, thrusting and pulsing and deep.

The thoughts pull another helpless little noise from him and he shivers when a third finger is added. Saruhiko is still being careful, but not quite as gentle; he twists his wrist and thrusts those fingers in and out (a mimicry of what is to come), and he strokes Misaki’s length in time with the motion of his fingers; it’s almost too much to try to fight, and it’s tempting to give in to that impending release, especially as those fingers curl and press yet again, finding that spot inside of him and rubbing against it. He’s close, and Saruhiko has to know it (is probably toying with him like this quite deliberately, the bastard) but Yata feels the need to verbally warn him all the same.

“If you don’t stop,” he manages to get out, but then cuts himself off with another low moan as Fushimi’s grip tightens on his erection, and then he tries again: “I’m gonna fucking come again if you keep this up!” Okay, so maybe the raised voice and the cursing wasn’t necessary to get his point across, but….

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fushimi drawls, spreading his fingers inside of Yata again. “I love being able to do this to you.”

For a moment, Misaki can’t find words, Fushimi having effectively stolen them from him with one simple sentence, but then he thinks about how, just moments ago, he’d been touching Saruhiko and Saruhiko had demanded that he stop, because—

_“I don’t want to come tonight until I’m inside you.”_

“I don’t want to come again until you’re inside me,” Yata tells him, swallowing hard when he hears Fushimi gasp softly in response.

The fingers on and inside of him halt their movements, and Fushimi finally says, “You know, technically, I _am_ inside of you.” He lightly wriggles the three fingers that are still inside of Misaki as if to prove a point, and Misaki can _hear_ the smugness in Saruhiko’s voice. It makes him want to punch him, it makes him want to shove him down and take care of the technicalities himself, and—

He thinks of straddling Fushimi, riding him, and everything short-circuits for a moment; it takes him a bit to find his voice again: “You know what I mean, you stupid monkey.” It’s a weak retaliation at best, but Saruhiko hums, as if in agreement, and those fingers withdraw and suddenly Fushimi isn’t touching him at all. The lack of contact makes him more frustrated than the overabundance of it, but Fushimi doesn’t keep him waiting long.

The blunt tip of Saruhiko’s cock nudges at where his fingers had just been and Yata forces himself to keep as still as possible as Fushimi begins to press inside. Even with more lubricant added, the difference between _this_ and what Fushimi had just been doing to him is striking, though not exactly in a bad way. Sure, it’s more of a stretch, a bit of a burn, even, as muscles shift to accommodate, but it’s _Saruhiko_ and it’s _good_ and Yata knows that it’s only going to get better, once he’s adjusted to the feel of this.

Fushimi moves slowly, carefully, tenderly, pausing once he’s fully inside of Yata, voice straining as he asks, “Are you okay?”

Yata feels his heart skip a beat as he is once again shown just how considerate Fushimi is being of him; he blinks a few times (something’s in his eye, he thinks) and he nods before giving vocal confirmation: “I’m okay, Saru. Keep going.”

It’s a slow slide backward, and another, equally unhurried push forward; Fushimi releases a soft hiss above and behind him, hands moving to rest on his hips, and Yata whimpers, wriggling a little, trying to press back, but Fushimi’s fingers bite into his hips, his hands hold him firmly in place, and _fuck_ if the restraint isn’t equal parts frustrating and erotic. Saruhiko’s taking this at his own pace and he’s not letting Yata have any control over it—the power-play is as it always has been between them, but in this instance, Yata is at least partly unbothered by the surrender. 

The slow, steady pace at which Fushimi is currently moving is a slight torture; he’s adjusted to the feel of this, to the pressure and the slick slide and the pushing in deep, and he wants more, needs Fushimi to move faster, would love to demand it with his own body but Saruhiko has successfully stifled his attempts to do so; those slender fingers are still grasping his hips firmly, with near-bruising force, but even that little bite of pain is a pleasure all its own—it adds to the heat growing in his lower belly, it’s fuel to the fire, and Yata wants the both of them to _burn_.

“Misaki.” 

Yata’s never much liked to be called by his first name; he’s always considered it a poor fit for him, too delicate, too sweet, nothing like him at all. He’d always hated it, too, when Fushimi would call him by that name just to get him to react, just to rile him up, just to piss him off ( _Mi. Sa. Ki._ ). But when he says it like this—full of heat and reverence and a curious sort of helpless desperation, Yata doesn’t mind it all that much. In fact, he quite likes it.

Yata gets it, he understands; he knows that Saruhiko is having a rough time holding back now, knows that the hold he has on his self-control is tenuous at best, and knows that he’s asking for permission even though Yata’s already given it to him in the form of trying to take and give what both of them need in the first place (and yes, Fushimi’s hold on him is still just as strong as it had been the moment he’d stopped him from shoving his hips back to begin with). 

“Please,” Yata whimpers, and it’s clearly what Saruhiko wants and needs to hear, or it suffices at the very least, because suddenly Fushimi’s surging forward, shoving in hard and deep, and there’s a bit of a sting that comes with it, but Yata doesn’t mind it, especially since Fushimi’s hold on him relaxes somewhat, allowing him to shift back and move _with_ him, and it’s shockingly good, now, even better when Fushimi begins stroking him again, in time with his thrusts. 

The pace increases and then suddenly halts altogether; Fushimi’s moving, drawing back, sliding out of him with a groan, and Yata’s confused and exasperated and almost hurt, not understanding what in the hell Fushimi’s thinking, at least until Fushimi’s helping him to maneuver his trembling, uncooperative limbs so that he’s on his back, legs spread. Fushimi then shoves a pillow beneath his lower back, angling his hips, and Yata gazes questioningly up at him while reaching for him at the same time.

“I needed to see you,” Saruhiko explains, fitting himself between Misaki’s thighs. “I want to watch you.”

Sharp inhale, slow, shuddering exhale. “I want to watch you, too,” Yata breathes, knows it’s true before he even says it, and he glances down between them, watches as Fushimi slides into him again, the sight of it making him shiver, and he moans, looking back to Fushimi’s face. Those eyes are as intense as ever and dark with want, and Yata needs him to take, to give, needs to feel him come, hot and deep inside of him.

Fushimi picks up where he’d left off, thankfully, and the angle’s different now, _more_ , because now they can look at each other and now each time Fushimi drives forward, he hits that spot he’d found with his fingers and it makes Misaki cry out and writhe, and it pushes him that much closer to the edge of orgasm.

Fushimi’s thrusts have become erratic, animalistic, in nature, and Yata tries to match him—he’s losing it, both of them are, but it doesn’t matter because this is the most fucking incredible thing Yata’s ever experienced, and he’s not exaggerating in the slightest. He can feel Saruhiko’s urgency and his own body echoes it, straining, and then—

“Misaki,” Fushimi says again, and then again, and again, the syllables all running together, and: “Come for me, come.”

Misaki reaches between them, the fingers of his right hand wrapping around his length and tugging, and he manages two strokes before he comes hard (and it’s so very different from when he’s doing this alone, there’s so much _more_ stimulation), his release hot dripping on his fingers, on his belly, and on Fushimi too. 

Stars dance behind his closed eyelids and he forces them open, his gaze meeting Fushimi’s instantly, and Fushimi seems to be drinking him in, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. Yata reaches for him with his left hand, touching his cheek, his lips, and when that clever tongue darts out to brush against his fingertips, Misaki can’t help the moan that slips from his own parted lips.

“Saru,” he says, pleads, and his throat is dry and he needs to watch Fushimi lose himself in this, in Yata, in _them_ , together. 

The rhythm changes again, falters, stutters, and then Fushimi’s eyes are snapping shut and he’s groaning and shuddering all over; he’s shattering apart in the most beautiful way and Misaki watches him, transfixed. He’s truly gorgeous, not that Yata hasn’t noticed before, but he’s never seen him quite like _this_ before, either. He’s going to want to see him like this as often as possible in the future (he’s already decided, damnit).

There’s something simultaneously emotionally and physically satisfying about Saruhiko coming deep inside of him; he doesn’t think his brain is up to analyzing the finer points of that right now, but he understands it, knows that it feels right, knows that he wants it to happen again (and again, and again). 

Saruhiko slumps over him for a moment, his muscles no doubt completely spent, and even though it’s a bit more difficult to breathe this way, Misaki doesn’t mind so much; he likes the proximity perhaps marginally more than oxygen, even though he’s sure his lungs would disagree with the rest of him.

“Hey,” Fushimi manages after a few moments, once his breathing isn’t quite so heavy, and Misaki wants to laugh. Instead, he snorts and smirks.

“Hey,” he returns, and then kisses Fushimi softly. “You get it now, huh?”

“Mmm.” Fushimi inclines his head slightly, not quite a nod, but it gets the message across all the same. “I hope you do, too.”

This time, Yata _does_ laugh. “Of course, you stupid monkey. You’ve told me in a way that I can understand.”

They stay like that for a few moments more, and then they decide that a shower is necessary. They do some minimal clean-up with the leftover tissues that Fushimi had brought over to the bed earlier, and then they shower together, standing close, hands touching shoulders, faces, chests, hips, every so often, and Yata’s heart soars at the look of near-wonder in Fushimi’s eyes. He’s pretty fucking lucky, he figures, to have a shot at something like this, to have the opportunity to do it _right_.

They discover that most of their clothes are still somewhat damp from the rain and Fushimi decides they can wash them in the morning; Yata slips on his underwear and Fushimi lends him one of his own shirts. It’s too big for him and it isn’t his style but it’s comfortable and it smells like Saru, so he doesn’t complain.

“You _are_ staying, right?” Fushimi asks him (it’s almost like an afterthought) as they crawl under the covers of the bed together and Misaki wants to laugh over the fact that Fushimi apparently feels the need to ask _now_ when the answer is glaringly obvious.

“Duh,” Yata tells him, and is promptly smacked in the face with a pillow. He almost hits Fushimi back, but doesn’t; he settles instead for curling as close to the other man as he can get, head nestled against Fushimi’s chest. He counts Fushimi’s heartbeats, leans into Fushimi’s gentle caresses against his forehead. 

“You do realize you’re going to get hell from Kusanagi and Kamamoto in regards to this, right?” Saruhiko asks after a moment.

Yata snorts. “Of course. I’ll figure out a way to pay you back.”

“It was _your_ idea to leave,” Fushimi points out, and Yata can’t really argue with him there, although he’s still intent on showing up at Scepter 4’s Headquarters and retrieving Fushimi one of these days in a similar manner, if only to see the look on Fushimi’s face. Well, that, and to see if the Blue King would even be the slightest bit surprised by Yata effectively kidnapping one of his most valuable clansmen. 

Given that Munakata had come to him to let him know the very real possibility of what could have happened to Fushimi after his infiltration of the Green Clan, Yata figures that perhaps Munakata wouldn’t be terribly shocked at all.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Misaki grouses, idly contemplating pulling away from Saruhiko and putting some distance between them on the bed, but he doesn’t; he blames it on his tired limbs.

“Mi. Sa. Ki.” Oh, there it is, that annoying lilt, that smug smirk that Yata can’t see in the dark, but he can hear it in Fushimi’s voice.

Yata half-heartedly nudges at Fushimi’s thigh with his knee. “I _can_ leave, you know,” he threatens, but both of them know that it’s a bluff; both of them know that he isn’t going anywhere.

“You can,” Fushimi agrees, “but you won’t. And I don’t want you to, anyway.”

“Then stop being an asshole and go to sleep.”

Silence falls between them and it’s a comfortable one. Fushimi is warm and Yata is warm and his body feels light (due to the emotions and the sex) and heavy (due to the drowsiness) at the same time.

Yata thinks, as sleep claims him, that they fit together well—their bodies, minds, souls. They don’t have to say _love_ to know that it’s there, in their shared breaths, in their gentle touches, in the way they come together and in the way they fall apart.

They speak of love without having to utter the word.

Then again, they always have, haven’t they?

 

~END~


End file.
